


Untethered

by GoodJanet



Series: Pete Campbell Accidentally Time Travels [2]
Category: Baby Driver (2017), Mad Men
Genre: Car Accidents, Concussions, Gen, Head Injury, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 16:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11444262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodJanet/pseuds/GoodJanet
Summary: Pete gets his by a car in New York in 1966. Buddy takes him to the hospital in Atlanta in 2017.





	Untethered

The blow to his head hadn’t seemed like it was that bad as it was happening. Sure, the force of the impatient New York taxi was painful, and smacking one’s head onto the unforgiving pavement was nightmarish, but Pete had assumed he’d simply stand up, give the man what-for, take his information down, and have a stiff drink before going into work. Surely Clara would lend a sympathetic ear.

When Pete opens his eyes, it is to Don’s face looking down at him as his vision swam. What is Don doing here? Shouldn’t he already be in the office? That was Draper for you. And here he was, putting himself in danger on his way to client meeting!

Pete groans and tries to sit up.

“My head…”

“Thank fuck. He’s not dead,” a voice says.

“Are you okay?” Don asks.

Pete tries to focus his eyes, but it just makes him sick to his stomach. Pete closes his eyes.

“I think I need to go to the hospital,” he says.

“Shit. Shit, Baby, I’ve got to take him in.”

“Take him in?” another voice says. “Are you kidding me? Doc will—”

“There are witnesses, Bats.”

Bats? Who the hell was Bats?

“Fine, you take him yourself. I’m not risking my ass for some dumb bitch who can’t be bothered to look both ways.”

“Fine! Give me the keys.”

Pete hears footsteps run away from them, and he opens his eyes once more. The sunlight feels like knives.

“I’m gonna take you in.”

Pete nods, and he regrets it immediately. This must be a concussion. He’d had one once before, from a nasty polo accident when he was a boy. Don reaches out a hand and hoists Pete up to his feet.

“Come on.”

“I thought you took the train to work,” Pete says.

Don ignores him and helps him sit in the passenger seat.

“Do you know your name and address? I’m just dropping you off, but I don’t want you dying on me. That old lady on the corner got a good look at me and my partner.”

Pete furrows his brow.

“Partner? Was there a partners’ meeting today?”

“Jesus.”

Don starts the engine while wearing an exasperated look that Pete completely misses. Pete tries to concentrate on Don’s face, but his vision is fuzzy. Almost as though he was wearing a veil in front of his eyes.

“Which hospital are you taking me to?” Pete asks.

“Grady Memorial is the closest.”

“Take me to Lenox Hill. My family has been going there for generations.”

“I don’t know where the fuck that is. Be grateful I’m taking you at all instead of leaving you for dead in the street.”

“Is that anyway to speak to coworker, Draper?”

“Who the fuck is Draper?”

Don takes a corner rather sharply, and Pete gasps.

“Very funny.”

“Look, I could do without your fucking attitude. I’ll let your lip slide since my friend obviously fucked you up pretty bad, but if you do it again, I’m kicking you out of my car.”

“Don, I don’t like this game. I don’t understand.”

“My name isn’t Don, and it isn’t Draper either.”

“Who-who are you?”

Not-Don chuckles.

“You can call me Buddy.”

Before Pete can reply, Not-Don comes to a jerking stop in front of the hospital.

“Okay, here we are. Good luck.”

“You can’t just leave me here,” Pete says. “What if I faint? What if I start losing my memory?”

Buddy licks his lips. The man was obviously fucked up. And he knows “the right thing to do” would be to at least stay with him until he got a nurse. This guy wasn’t his enemy. He didn’t know what world he had just stepped into.

“I don’t know how much help I’d be seeing as how I’ve only known you for ten minutes.”

“Please, Don. I’m seeing double. What if I—”

“Fine! Shit.”

Buddy puts the car in drive again and parks the car properly. He grabs Pete’s arm when Pete stumbles. Slowly they make their way to the ER check-in desk.

“Name and date of birth, please,” she says.

“Peter Dyckman Campbell. February 28, 1934.”

The nurse stops typing.

“I’m sorry. Did you mean to say 1974?”

“No, I most certainly did not.”

“Sir, you mean to tell me you’re eighty-three years old?”

“Eighty-three?” Pete repeats.

“He was in a car accident,” Buddy says. “He got hit pretty bad. Probably a concussion.”

“I see,” the nurse says. “Better take him right away. And you’re his…?”

“Just a bystander, ma’am.”

The nurse cracks a smile.

“A good Samaritan, hm?”

Buddy cracks a smile.

“Sure.”

“Come on back with me,” she says. “We’ll put him in room 2 until the doctor can see him. Try to keep him awake.”

* * *

“I’ve already told you: my name is Peter Campbell. I live in Manhattan. The year is 1966. The president is LBJ, and my only other head injury was from a polo match I played in in 1948.”

“Well, this is worse than I thought,” the doctor mutters.

“Shit,” Buddy says.

“He’s going to need someone to watch over him,” the doctor continues, looking at Buddy pointedly.

“Me? I don’t even know him. He was roadkill.”

“Sir, this man doesn’t even know a telephone number to call. He needs someone to watch over him and give him his medications every three hours.”

“Why can’t he just stay here?”

“Because he doesn’t have any insurance.”

“This is ridiculous! I demand to know why I am being denied a room here!” Pete scolds.

Buddy sighs.

“Jesus.”

* * *

Buddy signs off on Pete’s meds and discharge sheets with one of his fake names. Hopefully Doc would be generous enough to foot the bill.

“Come on. We’re going to my house.”

“In Ossining?”

Buddy sighs.

“For the last fucking time: this isn’t fucking New York.”

Pete swallows and gets into the car.

“I’m sorry. I just—Nothing makes any sense, Don!”

Buddy starts the car and backs out of his spot. He tears out of the parking lot, and they’re back on the expressway in no time.

“And I’m still not ‘Don’ either.”

Pete frowns.

“You did say your name was Buddy earlier, didn’t you,” he says primly.

“Maybe your head’s not a messed up as we thought.”

“Whomever you are, thank you. For saving my life.”

“Don’t mention it.”

And he means it.

The whole rest of the way to the safe house, Pete looks out his window, watching Atlanta go by. He seems a little scared and more than a little confused. There’s a look of almost childlike wonder about him, and Buddy’s not sure if that’s just Pete of the concussion that’s giving off that vibe.

Buddy pulls into the parking lot, and they both get out. Pete takes small, slow steps. Buddy leads him to the elevator.

“Where are we now?”

“That’s not important. I’m taking you to Doc. He’ll know what to do with you.”

“Another doctor?”

“Sort of,” Buddy says. “He’s more of a fixer than anything.”

“And it’s not 1966?”

“No, Pete.”

The doors ding, and Pete follows Buddy out. He’s lead down rows of empty tables and overturned chairs and rusted sewing machines. There’s a woman in a miniskirt, a black man, and a teenager sitting around a table with another man standing in front of it.

“Is this him?” the leader, Pete guesses, asks.

“Everyone, this is Pete Campbell.”

Pete smiles and awkwardly waves, but he gets nothing but stony faces. The woman smacks her gum at him in a rather rude and obnoxious way.

“What happened?”

“Bats happened,” Buddy answers.

“This motherfucker didn’t even look before crossing!” Bats says.

“You did this to me?” Pete says, incredulous. “How dare you! I should report you to the authorities! I should—”

“Now, now,” the leader says. “There will be none of that.”

Pete gives him a sour face.

“And just who might you be?”

The man smirks.

“You can call me Doc.”

“Doc, huh? And just what are you going to do to stop me from ensuring that justice is properly served?”

“Is he always like this?” Doc asks.

“He hasn’t shut up since I took him in.”

Doc faces Pete once more.

“You’ve got a lot to learn. And you’ve got quite the debt of gratitude to make up for now. So what’s your line? How are you going to pay me back for covering your expenses today?”

Pete puffs out his chest.

“I’m in advertising. I made junior partner a few years ago, actually.”

“Well good. Good. So you come from money. That makes things easier for all of us. Why don’t you boys sit down? I was just getting started.”

Buddy takes his usual seat, and the teenager gets up and grabs one for him. He pats the seat, and Pete takes that as his cue to sit there.

“Thanks, er, what’s your name?”

“Baby,” the boy says.

Pete frowns at the oddity. He’s about to ask another million questions, but Doc unfurls a map on the table, so Pete shuts up.

Hopefully this awful dream would end soon, and he could go back to work.

Doc drones on, talking weapons and entrance points. He even used miniature cars to illustrate his points.

It would happen any second now.

Pete was sure of it.


End file.
